


Holiday Horrors

by truculentTruncheo



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: (it was a monster bird thing but ), Animal Death, Blood, Hunting, M/M, Multi, Tentacles, Werewolf Tom, basically im challenging myself to write more, detailed depiction of drowning, little red riding hood tord, long haired tom, merman tord, oneshots, taking requests, unedited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28078719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truculentTruncheo/pseuds/truculentTruncheo
Summary: a series of oneshots written whenever i have free time. taking requests! :D1. merman tord x lighthouse keeper tom2. little red riding hood (tomtord)
Relationships: Edd & Matt & Tom & Tord (Eddsworld), Edd/Matt/Tom/Tord (Eddsworld), Tom/Tord (Eddsworld)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	1. the lighthouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tom has been tasked with repairing and maintaining an old lighthouse. he may find that something else has already made a home here. 
> 
> (merman tord x lighthouse keeper tom ) (mostly implied but there may be a part two )
> 
> send requests to my tumblr: versace-will-never-be-the-same

When Tom pulls up on that endless stretch of rocky shore, motorcycle roaring and sputtering with exhaustion, backpack hanging off his shoulder by a frayed strap, keys to the old lighthouse buried between his knuckles, bruised and tired and hungry and drenched by the rain that’s vomiting down more relentlessly than a middle aged man on a late night bender, it doesn’t matter why he’s there, what he’s been through, or how these keys became his to protect. 

Vines slither through cobblestone and chipped paint hangs on by the claws of sheer will. The big bright light that’s supposed to be up top isn’t on. He wonders if it even works. There’s a rectangular stain on the porch like some distant time ago a welcome mat had rested on the boards. He inserts the key into the lock, pushes the door open-- winces at the creak, steps inside, dripping water on the floor. One moth-eaten flower-sewn sofa is pushed into the corner. Cobwebs and dust line every surface. The walls are painted in streaks of water damage. 

This is his home now, he thinks-- with some parts disdain, and some parts undying gratitude. 

He tosses his backpack onto the sofa, checkered pattern looking out of place, leaves a trail of footprints in the dust circling about until they find the spiral staircase ascending up into the tower. He’s worn and weary but he didn’t come all this way not to take a peek from the top. The rusted metal beneath his trainers groans under his weight. The wind howls like it wants to tear the place apart. The climb feels like forever and he’s wheezing and crawling by the time he takes that last step. 

He peeks up out from beneath his shoulders where his hoodie’s fallen over his face and his hair hangs over his eyes like icicles. Even off, the light is breathtaking, huge, humbling-- bigger than a yo mamma joke. Tom feels like a bug trapped in a lamp, like the last few drops in the bottom of the bottle. He doesn’t know how it works, how he’ll turn it on. He doesn’t know how to even begin to start fixing the load of crap down stairs. He doesn’t know what he’ll eat or what he’ll wear or what he’ll do with his life. 

From the depths of his pockets, he takes out the last of his old tags, a roll of ASDF stickers, just four left. He slaps one onto the window, and the lighthouse feels just a little more his. 

On a rare sunny day Tom finds himself kneeling atop the wobbly dock tearing rotten planks out and nailing new ones down. Waves slosh around him, sea spray keeping him cool. He wears a thin tank top and jeans, some old gloves he recovered from the one car garage. 

Sweat pools at his brow, and he takes a swig from his water bottle. (An empty beer bottle, repurposed.) The endless glittering jade around him should make him feel small, trapped, alone. Instead, all he feels is free and freer as the time goes by. 

He hammers down hour after hour, until his fingers are blistered and his back is sore. He sprawls out, the sunlight washing over him like a blanket. He lets his eyes slip closed, his breaths grow slow and even. He lies there on the verge of sleep for however long. It’s not like he has anywhere else to be. 

A song from before escapes his lips, a song he might not dare sing if his eyes were open. The breeze dances with his voice and carries it away. For the first time in a million years he feels at peace. 

Until he’s startled out of his haze by a strange noise, a deep hissing trill like a snake or a cat, and he sits up so suddenly he knocks his hammer over the side, into the abyss below. 

“No, Anthony!” he cries, scrambling to the edge of the docks and leaning out over the sea, trying desperately to grab at it as it sinks. He gets on his belly, strains as he feels the blood rush to his face, but it’s in vain. Anthony is lost to the grimy grasp of Poseidon. 

“Fuck.” 

He’s not giving up that easy. He jumps down into the icy water. Can’t be more than ten feet, probably, though he doesn’t actually know anything at all about that. He takes up all the air he can, plugs his nose, ducks his head under and flails toward the bottom. 

It isn’t too long until the burn in his lungs tugs him back up into the light. He shakes his hair, squints the droplets out of his eyes, tries again. And again, he needs to resurface before he even reaches the floor. Shit, shit, _shit_ , he can’t just lose things, he can’t afford to, not when he has so little, not when he can’t replace them. 

“God damn it.” His muscles scream, his chest heaves. He plunges under once more, promises he won’t come back up until he has it. He swims down and down and bubbles rise beside his face, leaking out of the corner of his mouth. He can do it, he can make it. If he can’t do this one little thing, if he can’t even save a hammer, what’s he good for? 

When his hands touch soft sand he could cry. He feels around helplessly, the grains shifting into his fingernails. The occasional sharp rocks bites at his skin. Every cell in his body screams to leave-- he knows if he stays a little longer he’ll get it, he has to. Come on, come on, _come on_. It’s got to be around here somewhere. It’s a hammer for Christ's sake, it couldn’t have just floated away. 

Finally his hands find the handle, rough with age and he’s never cared this much about a tool before, never wanted to throw a celebration over a hammer, and he kicks up off the ground and towards the sky. But his foot is caught by something, something that feels like human hands. Dread washes over him. He twists and turns and something else, something slick, wraps around his arm, then another around his waist, his neck. 

He can’t move his hands, can’t hold his breath any longer and he feels like he’s going to die, die with his fingers clamped stubbornly around a hammer. He keeps his mouth shut with everything he has, refusing to give in. His eyes open and he can’t see anything but black spots. He grows limp, feels his fingers loosen, his squirming dying down. The last thing he remembers is the feeling of a slimy tendril dragging across his face like a mocking caress. 

This is only the second time Tom has awoken disoriented and surrounded by skeletons, but he hates that it’s happened at all. He’s rolled over, coughing out his guts. His throat feels like it’s coated in nails, his nostrils like he’d done nothing but snort carbonated drinks all night. The sun hangs low and shines red. He’s under the docks, the same ones he’d jumped from to risk his life for a hammer. The hammer in question sits in a pile of fish bones and carcasses. Other junk is scattered about. Seaweed tied to the poles, shells dotted around the area like a fence. Two rusted-over guns are stacked on a cinderblock tucked away in the back, as if to keep them safe. 

Guns. Bones. Seaweed, tied. Someone, or _something_ , lives here. Probably the same something that almost killed him back there. That left him _here_ , with the remains of its meals. He stutters to his feet, grabs the hammer, and runs out of there faster than a cat out of hell. (he’s good at running.) Heart pounding, adrenaline swimming through his veins, he vows not to come back down to the docks. 

One chilly morning when clouds decorate the sky and Tom eats microwaved eggs from a mug in his boxers, a firm knock sounds from the door. He wipes his mouth, contemplates getting dressed, decides it isn’t worth it, and peeks out the window. He sees two men about his age, a brunet and a ginger, carrying what looks like... groceries. The ginger catches his eye and curls out his hands, flinching them forward in a feign attack, obviously making fun of him for scoping them out. Tom flips him the bird. The guy shoots him a smug smirk in response. 

Alright then, asshole. He storms up to the door and slams it open, then crosses his arms over his torso. 

“What the hell do you want?” 

“Oh,” says the brunet, who, in person, towers above him. “I thought you’d be old, for some reason. But you’re, well... “ He looks him up and down. “Hm. And, your eyes, they--” 

“What. The hell. Do you want?” 

He relents. “Jesus Christ, you’re unpleasant.” He gestures to himself, then the ginger, who’s picking at his nails. “I’m Edd. He’s Matt. We brought you food and junk cuz you just moved in, or whatever.” 

“Nice drawers, ” Matt says. 

“I’ll shove them down your throat.” 

“Promise?” 

"Promise I'll--" 

“Just take the bags, you twat.” Edd groans, running the fingers on his free hand through his hair, cut in a style that reminds Tom of the Beatles. 

Tom lifts his chin in defiance. “I don’t want your dumb charity.” 

“Please, like we care. You can thank Matt’s grandma for the ‘charity,’ if you’re the type who thanks people at all.” Edd drops the bags on the porch and starts walking away, shoves his hands in his coat pockets. Matt shrugs, spinning around and following suit. 

“Wait.” Tom calls. He figures there’s no harm in asking crazy questions when they don’t like him anyway. 

“What?” 

“Is there any kind of, I don’t know,” how does he even begin to phrase this, “local sea monster? Giant octopus, mermaids, that kind of thing?” 

Matt grins, sauntering forward. “Not that I’ve heard of,” he says. He puts his hand on Tom’s shoulder, leaning in close. “Now, vampires, on the other hand--” 

“Oh, fuck off.” Tom shrugs the offending hand away. “You lot are no help at all.” 

“What do you think we are? Marine biologists? Folklore experts?” Edd cocks his hip out, looking baffled. 

“I thought you were people who lived here. Might know something. Whatever, it’s not important anyway.” He shivers, only now feeling the bite of cold. 

He turns to head inside, adamant on leaving the groceries behind. He twists his neck over, glaring at them. 

“Au revoir, fuckfaces. Don’t come back.” 

“We won’t.” 

He shuts the door and they walk off. Tom watches from the window as they hop into an ugly little jeep and start her up, revving the engine obnoxiously. They drive around in circles, kicking up a cloud of dust, before driving away into the distance. Seriously, fuck them. 

Tom sighs. Look at him, making friends already. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song tom sings is the original rap portion of the alvin and the chipmunks cover of 'only you.' no i dont take criticism 
> 
> (also i dont know that ill ever get around to writing it but i have the cutest idea of merman tord picking up one of his old guns and saying 'bang' to try and make it work ) 
> 
> (also also yes merman tord has tentacles. of course he does. )


	2. the forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tord is Little Red Riding Hood and Tom is the Big Bad Wolf, with a twist. ( with a maybe part two on the way? )
> 
> thank you for reading! ^-^ 
> 
> Send requests to my tumblr: versace-will-never-be-the-same

Shadows paint the forest floor in long strokes of darkness that move with the wind. Sticks and rocks and sharp tall grasses reach for him from every corner, every crevasse, clawing at his skin. Each tear and stumble pushes him faster, sucks him further into the foliage, claims him as another faceless shifting component of the woods. 

Tord is loud and reckless and bright red, but not without intent. A basket of brisket and cherry tarts hangs loose on his arm. A branch cuts at his cheek and he makes no move to patch it up, no thumb across it to stifle the bleeding.

His trail is brazen. He crushes leaves under his feet. He lets patches of his cloak get caught in thorns and bushes. He breathes in swooping gasps, falls to his knees in a clearing days away from where he’d entered. 

White and yellow flowers poke out from the dirt. He picks some, tears at the petals. Will he find me, won’t he. He takes a bite of brisket. He eats four of the tarts, feels the sugar coating his throat. He lies down on soft green grass, watches clouds go by. Waits with a small smile on his face. Perhaps he should pretend to cry, instead. 

As night falls, he gathers sticks and tinder, lets his fire burn bright, lets the smoke rise in puffy torrents. I’m here, is what he’s trying to say. He throws some brisket into the flames. It sizzles and squirms until it disappears. _Come and get me._

  
  
  
  


The first sign of an ever growing strangeness is the insects, which have gradually tripled in size. A moth as big as his face leaves a fog of powder in the air. The plants change too. Vines so thick they block out the sun, weeds that wilt away from his feet. Mushrooms that glow, and fruits that ooze and shake. He writes it all down, pokes and prods at things he shouldn’t, just to see if he can. 

Remnants of past travellers begin to appear, armor and swords and unlaced shoes, resting on a shriveled tree trunk, sticking out from a hole in the ground, caught in the cradle of a fallen log. People die here on the outskirts of this labyrinth. Do they die from the Wolf, he wonders, or something else. 

He runs out of food, eventually, forages what he knows to be good. Tests what he doesn’t. He finds himself with his feet in black water one day, chest heaving with heat. His mouth screams and warm tears leak from the corner of his eyes. The smallest pinch of a speckled gourd had brought him there, to this state of delirious frenzy. A couple hours in the creek washes it away. 

He scoops up water in his hands, splashes it across his face. He scribbles something in his journal, accompanied by an inscrutably bad sketch of the gourd. _‘Spicy_.’ 

  
  
  


A week into the strangeness, he has his first encounter with true danger. The crack of falling trees sounds in the distance, not far away enough for his comfort, and growing closer. A shrill cry rattles his bones. 

He scurries as quickly as he can away from the noise, ducks behind rocks and pulls his hood tight over his face, braces his arm guard and poison dagger. He gasps in equal parts horror and fascination when a giant hooved leg sweeps over his head and sinks into the dirt, leaving behind a footprint Tord could lie in if he were so inclined. (After minutes of contemplation, he does. It drowns him, reminds him that he's small. ) 

  
  
  
  


He can’t afford to be as blatantly careless here as he was at the start. He begins to cover his tracks, quiet his footsteps, take shelter in tight spaces hidden from sight. Even so he feels the persistent presence of eyes on his back, a constant fear of being attacked, tracked, hunted. Only, now he isn’t so sure if that’s what he wants, if maybe he’s caught the attention of something other than the Wolf. If maybe the Wolf or anything else might be more fearsome than he can fight. 

He sets a trap for his pursuer, leaves a trail and doubles back, climbs high in the canopy and pulls back his bow, arrow at the ready. In this quiet moment he feels the sweat on his skin, the dirt in his nails, feels the soreness of wandering all across his body. His eyes stay focused on the path, though they yearn to close. His arms tremble with the weight of his weapon, but he waits, and waits, with a patience gifted by dread. 

A creature appears, a skeletal bird with featherless wings, hopping and pecking at some crumbs Tord has left behind. It’s certainly hideous, but he doesn’t imagine it could overpower him. Thinks, perhaps it is harmless.

Until it latches its gaze to where he’s hidden in the leaves and opens its jaw, revealing rows of jagged teeth and a pointed tongue. Despite what he’s done to cover himself it diverges from the trail, runs straight toward him as though it knows exactly where he is and he releases the first arrow, panics as it hardly grazes the bird. 

“Oh, frick.”

He loads the bow again, squeezes the branch between his legs to keep his balance, fires and makes the shot but despairs as the bird seems unphased, and far angrier. It reaches his tree and all thoughts of shooting it are abandoned as its talons rip into the bark, as it climbs up after him. He shimmies across his branch, as far as he can go, drops down so his feet dangle over the forest floor. Maybe he can swing over to another tree. Maybe if he makes the fall he can run away. Maybe if he can-- _he slips_. 

He lands on bent legs, rolls when he hits the ground. His bow is broken. None of his limbs are, or, at least, he can’t feel it yet. He scrambles to his feet, sprints as far as he can before sharp claws dig into his back and he’s pressed face down under the bird, face down but if he can reach his dagger, if he can bite its leg or gouge out its eyes, maybe he can turn this around, maybe he can do anything at all to escape this situation, _please_ , there’s got to be something.

But he doesn’t need to. Above him the bird halts its shrieking, loosens its grasp. Something wet and warm and putrid drips onto him and he hears the heavy stuttered breathing of another living thing, winces as the bird collapses and he feels its full weight on his shoulders. 

A pair of dark brown boots appear in front of him, attached to a figure that leans down to shove the bird off and onto the ground. Pokes at his wounds. 

“Looks bad.” And it’s human, it’s the sound of a human, or something close to it. A human who saved him, though he could’ve managed on his own. 

He struggles to sit up, takes in the person before him. He’s bare-chested, draped in furs and necklaces of teeth and claws. He has long, mangy gray hair that sticks up at the ends, and faint scars all over his skin. Blood is splattered across his arm, green and foul. 

But Tord is most captured by his eyes, as black as a night with no stars, as black as tar or the edges of a dream. _The eyes of the Wolf_. He’s found him. 

“Oh, wow,” he says, angling his head just so, hoping to give the impression of someone shocked, someone meek and bashful. “You rescued me.” 

“What are you doing here.” Blunt, not that he’d expect the Wolf to speak any other way. 

“I’m…” He coughs. Feigns suspicion, it’s right to be wary. “What are _you_ doing here?” 

“I see.” The Wolf crosses his arms. “We’re not going to be getting answers from each other, then.” 

He'll have to play this carefully. Tord hunches over, makes himself smaller. “Sorry. I was looking for something. I’m lost now.” 

“You’re unlucky, to be lost all the way out here.” If only. 

“Do you know the way?” 

“The way where?” The Wolf is quite stupid, Tord thinks. 

“Out?” 

The Wolf sighs, scratches behind his ear. 

“There isn’t one.” 

“What do you mean?” Tord looks up at him with wide eyes. 

The Wolf walks over to the bird, prods at it with the heel of his boot.

“The only exit from this place is death.” 

“How morbid.” Tord frowns. “I don’t believe you.” 

“Whatever. Not like I care.” 

They sit in silence as the Wolf takes out a knife, crouches by the bird. Tord watches in a daze as he cuts off its head, its wiry legs, its bony wings. Wraps it in thick rope so it’s easy to carry. 

“So,” Tord drawls. He feels faint. “I answered you, pretty boy." He is pretty, for a wretched beast. Tord will give him that. "What are you doing here, then?” 

“Pretty…” The Wolf snorts. “Oh, God. Pretty boy. Look at my eyes. What makes you think I’m not a ghoul, luring you for a bite to eat. Or maybe a demon, to drag you to hell.” 

Tord laughs, raises a brow. “And what makes you think _I’m_ not an evil fairy, come to abduct you into my realm?” 

“Easy.” The Wolf gives him a glare that bares straight into him. “You’re too annoying.” 

Tord bats his eyelashes. “I certainly try.” 

The Wolf lugs the bird over his shoulder, stands tall and firm. 

“Your injuries need to be treated. Surprised you haven’t done anything about that.” 

Tord reaches his hand over his back, winces at tender flesh, at his cloak ripped to shreds. “Would you believe I forgot?” 

“How did you survive so long?” 

“Had a guardian angel, I suppose.” 

The Wolf shakes his head. “Yeah, you should be dead by now.” 

“You might be right,” Tord says, bringing his fingers together. He sniffs, sighs, lets his head fall, as though he’s beginning to see the grim harshness of his reality, as though he’s starting to give up. 

“Look.” The Wolf groans, averts his gaze as his face grows red. “If you don’t have anywhere to be, you can come with me. I guess. At risk of being eaten.” 

And this is perfect, isn’t it. Whether the Wolf intends to eat him or kill him or what have you, Tord has managed to lower his guard, has gained some semblance of his trust. The poison soaked dagger weighs heavy on his belt. His mind grows even heavier with desire of power, of magic old and unfathomable. The magic of the Wolf’s heart, torn from its chest. 

He gives the Wolf a watery smile, brings himself to his feet. 

“I’ll take my chances.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long haired tom UWU


End file.
